BOOK EXTRACTS RAT SCABIES AND THE HOLY GRAIL
'"The Da Vinci Code" gets the punk rock treatment' according to one reviewer. First published in 2005 by Sceptre (UK), Thunder's Mouth (US), Seeling Verlag (Germany) and AST (Russia)
JUST THE BLOKE I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR
The first time I spoke to Rat Scabies, he was climbing out of a battered old Ford he'd manoeuvred to a juddering halt outside his house. He was wearing swimming goggles and had a leather flying helmet jammed on his head. I smiled and said hello. He smiled and said hello back. So far so good. I saw him again a few days later, when I was struggling to trim my high and unruly hedge with a pair of rusty shears I'd found in the garden shed. I suddenly had the feeling that someone was watching me and, spinning round, there he was, arms folded, back pressed against his gatepost. 'Give it a mohican,' he shouted across the street. 'That'll teach the bastard.'
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YOU ARE A MUZZAFUCKER!
Clambering onto the train with the wheels already turning, we headed straight for a First Class compartment and commandeered a block of four seats. 'This'll do nicely,' said Scabies. His shirt was emblazoned with the name The Vandals – one of America's finest punk outfits – and his jeans had such big rips in the knees they were more hole than denim. He was also wearing his moccasin slippers. 'You've still got your slippers on,' I said, presuming he'd forgotten to put on his shoes in the fluster to catch the train. I was expecting him to look down at his feet and curse. Or at least tut. But he didn't curse, he didn't tut, he didn't anything. He didn't even look down. And he didn't take off his slippers for the entire time we were in France.
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The first time I spoke to Rat Scabies, he was climbing out of a battered old Ford he'd manoeuvred to a juddering halt outside his house. He was wearing swimming goggles and had a leather flying helmet jammed on his head. I smiled and said hello. He smiled and said hello back. So far so good. I saw him again a few days later, when I was struggling to trim my high and unruly hedge with a pair of rusty shears I'd found in the garden shed. I suddenly had the feeling that someone was watching me and, spinning round, there he was, arms folded, back pressed against his gatepost. 'Give it a mohican,' he shouted across the street. 'That'll teach the bastard.'
READ MORE
YOU ARE A MUZZAFUCKER!
Clambering onto the train with the wheels already turning, we headed straight for a First Class compartment and commandeered a block of four seats. 'This'll do nicely,' said Scabies. His shirt was emblazoned with the name The Vandals – one of America's finest punk outfits – and his jeans had such big rips in the knees they were more hole than denim. He was also wearing his moccasin slippers. 'You've still got your slippers on,' I said, presuming he'd forgotten to put on his shoes in the fluster to catch the train. I was expecting him to look down at his feet and curse. Or at least tut. But he didn't curse, he didn't tut, he didn't anything. He didn't even look down. And he didn't take off his slippers for the entire time we were in France.
READ MORE
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